


What the Xolo Dragged In

by Becky_Tailweaver



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becky_Tailweaver/pseuds/Becky_Tailweaver
Summary: An encounter with a legendary ghost spurs Dante the Xolo to heroic action, saving his Boy's life—but causes Miguel to end up in the Land of the Dead years too early!





	1. (Prologue) Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This story is mainly intended as cute, fluffy wish fulfillment. It may have some angsty moments, maybe more than a few tears, definitely some thrown shoes, but at heart it is intended to be a warm tale that ends with family, music, and dreams come true.
> 
> I know I've ruined the suspense, but I didn't want anyone to worry that any characters were going to end up dead(er). I'm hoping for this story to be a cute and comforting read.

Dante knew that he was a Good Dog. He knew it because his Boy told him so, even when the other humans in his Boy's pack barked and growled at him. Having a Boy was very important, a very big job, and not every Dog on the streets in town had a Boy, so Dante knew that he was also very fortunate.

Dante also knew that he was young, and had a lot to learn, but he still took pride in how well he already knew how to take care of his Boy. Humans were clumsy and couldn't smell very well, and prone to being entirely too curious about all kinds of things that weren't even Food (really, they were worse than _Cats_ ), and his Boy's pack had three human pups that were no exception to this rule, Dante's Boy included. His Boy was the smallest of the lot, the noisiest and most curious, the most often barked at by the pack's alpha female, therefore his Boy needed a _lot_ of looking after.

It was hard work. That was all right, though, because his Boy always brought Dante lots of Food of _all_ different smells and flavors, and none of the other Dogs on the streets got those!

It could be a really frustrating job too, especially when humans were too dim to learn to understand proper speech. Dante had his Boy _fairly_ well trained, at least when his Boy was paying attention, but his Boy was also still just a pup and tended to run off without listening like all pups did (Dante was guilty of quite a bit of this himself when he was still with Mother). It was as hard to get his Boy to listen when something wasn't safe as it was to tell his Boy exactly which Food he wanted—even if _all_ Foods were good any time.

Dante might have been relatively new at looking after his Boy, but he knew right away that the human pups were not supposed to be out of the den at night. Clumsy, blind little human pups that couldn't even smell danger had no business sneaking away from their parents after dark. The biggest pup was leading the way and didn't look happy about the smaller pair following him, but he didn't make them go back either.

Dante knew how to do his job best, so of course he followed and tried to pull his Boy and the female pup back toward their den. As usual, they didn't listen. They were going toward the River, which Dante knew was _especially_ Bad at night—the moving water that could turn deadly without warning, and other Things that Dante didn't know how he knew but he still _knew_ it was Bad.

The bigger human pup was meeting up with a group of youngsters about his own size, and they all made exasperated whines and growls when they saw the younger two following. But even _this_ didn't make his Boy go back to the den, and Dante was at his wits' end. He didn't know how he knew, but he _knew_ that with the Round Moon high it was a Very Bad time to be at the River. It wasn't always, but this time it was, and they all needed to run back to their dens _right now_.

Sure enough, the human pups didn't listen to Dante's frantic yelling. And sure enough, the Bad Thing arrived.

It started with a howl that made Dante's ears hurt, as it came up out of the water white as the Round Moon. The human pups yelped and shrieked, scattering in every direction at the shrill noise, and the Howling Bad Thing lurched at them. Like any proper hunter, it went for the smallest and weakest prey—Dante's Boy, running blindly right past the Bad Thing's reach. And that was just _not okay_.

The Howling Bad Thing had a grip on his yelping Boy, dragging the small human pup into the swift River. His Boy's female littermate stood up on the bank where the others had run, howling in alarm herself. Dante wasted no time, plunging into the shallows in pursuit of the Bad Thing, despite every instinct that told him it was much smarter—and much more conducive to survival—to run away with the rest.

But Dante knew he was a Good Dog, and Good Dogs didn't leave their Boys to get eaten by Bad Things.

Dante bit down on the Howling Bad Thing's forepaw harder than he'd ever crunched any tasty bone. It was squishy and smoky and didn't taste like anything but it was _cold_ and hurt his teeth. His Boy slipped out of the Bad Thing's grasp and disappeared under the water, and the Bad Thing let out another of those ear-piercing howls and reached for him.

Shouting a dire warning, Dante snapped at the Bad Thing's grabbing forepaws as he went down the River after his Boy. He knew most humans could swim, and he'd seen his own Boy paddle along with some success, but his Boy was small and the River was big and fast. He could no longer hear or see any of the other human pups on the shore, and called for his Boy in desperation, looking everywhere until at last the round dark head popped up from the moving water, choking and yelping in dismay.

Dante swam after his Boy as fast as he could, just managing to catch the human pup by his thin cloth scruff. He told the frightened pup that he was a Good Boy as best he could between clenched teeth, hoping to reassure him.

It was hard to hear anything over the pup's shrill whines, so when Dante turned to pull him toward shore he was alarmed to find the Howling Bad Thing standing tall in the water just next to them, as if it didn't have to swim at all. It yowled at them like an angry Cat and reached for them, and Dante _knew_ he could not let it touch his weakening Boy again.

Good Boy, he panted over and over again, because the human pup was terrified. Good Boy.

There was nowhere safe for his Boy _here_. They were surrounded on all sides by rushing River and Howling Bad Thing. Out of time and out of options, Dante decided to do the only thing he could think of that would make his Boy safe: Bring him to the Other Boy. That was something Dante had always _known_ —that one day he would bring his Boy to the Other Boy and they would both be safe. He also knew that it wasn't the Right Time, but he was out of options if he was going to protect his Boy like a Good Dog.

The Howling Bad Thing's paws grasped at them. Dante took the risk and pulled his Boy down into the rushing River. The human pup was a Good Boy and didn't struggle any more. He didn't let go of his Boy as the howls of the Bad Thing went far away and the waters turned black and silent.


	2. Driftwood

When one was this Nearly-Forgotten, Héctor reflected lazily, there really wasn't anything to do but entertain oneself in whatever various ways one could afford that wouldn't result in loss of parts or broken bones. Most of his compatriots spent their time drinking, playing cards, and singing raunchy songs, having willingly given up attachments to their former lives since it hurt too much to cling to those things.

Damn right it hurt, and Héctor was too much of a fool to give it up, spending _his_ time contemplating ways to sneak himself across the Marigold Bridge to Santa Cecilia once a year, filling the other three hundred and sixty-four days with plotting. So he sat on the slick, grimy steps of the stone pyramid outside of Shantytown and contemplated the expanse of Waters that trapped him in the Land of the Dead while drinking the dregs of tequila from a bottle he'd found floating nearby. Who knew where it came from or who might have discarded it—some wealthy skeleton from Above or a member of the Nearly-Forgotten Family who'd faded into Final Death and dropped all their things wherever they'd vanished.

It didn't matter either way. It wasn't like consuming spoiled food could kill him again (though on some bad nights he'd occasionally wished something _could_ end his miserable existence, but he'd replaced that dark depression with desperate determination to see Coco one last time before he _did_ go, since anything else would betray his love for his daughter). And if the bottle was dropped by some Forgotten soul, they probably wouldn't want it to go to waste when the Family could enjoy what they'd left behind.

There was a dog barking. As he lounged on the damp stone, Héctor was reminded of long-ago late summer evenings in Santa Cecilia, the air just beginning to cool as the sun went down and the back streets echoing with the barks of stray dogs searching for trash to pick through. These days, he felt more like the street dogs than one of the comfortable residents of his hometown. He'd grown wary and noisy and opportunistic, pretending friendship with wealthier townsfolk and wagging his tail just to get any scrap he could use, stealing from their trash if they didn't give him anything.

That dog was still barking, louder now, and it was getting kind of annoying. Whoever kept that alebrije needed to come get it to shut up—

Blinking, Héctor sat upright. It sounded like a _dog_ barking. _Just_ like a dog. Alebrijes usually sounded _weird_ , not-quite-right, often a mixture of two or more creatures blended in their voices as in their appearance. This sounded like a dog right off the streets of his hometown.

Curious now, Héctor rose to his feet to limp in the direction of the noise. Coming around the corner of the massive stone pyramid, he spotted a zany-patterned, bouncing ball of alebrije bounding toward him, barking continuously. It was so brightly colored it seemed to glow in the dim, misty evening light.

"Whoa, fella, slow down!" Héctor held out his arms calmingly, hoping the dog-shaped alebrije wouldn't decide to jump on him; he really didn't want to be scattered all over the stones or have any parts stolen by a bone-chewing canine.

The dog-alebrije didn't come close enough for him to touch it, though. It just paced and circled and barked at him before running back the way it came, pausing every so often to look at him before barking even more.

It was a strange alebrije. It sounded exactly like a dog. It was _shaped_ exactly like a hairless Xolo dog and nothing else, except for a scrawny pair of wings that seemed all but useless. If it _was_ a dog, it was barely more than a puppy, and it seemed very urgent about something. Frowning, Héctor followed it along the waterfront.

A ways ahead of him, the alebrije-dog stopped to sniff and nudge at a small pile of wet rags half in the water. It kept whining and barking urgently as Héctor shambled his way along, squinting at the bundle of trash.

It took a few moments of staring and a startling tug of motion from the rags before the image resolved itself into a _small child-shaped figure_ lying on the stones and Héctor was distantly aware of the sound of shattering glass as he dropped the liquor bottle and ran as best he could toward the alebrije and its downed child.

Héctor almost dropped his own _head_ when he knelt to roll the struggling child over and found it to be _solid_ and _heavy_ and possessed of _flesh_ and _skin_ and a chubby _face_ and with a yelp he lurched back away as the child choked up water and began to cry.

_**What** in the name of all that is holy and good is a **living child** doing **here?**_

He couldn't resist the crying. It reminded him far too closely of his daughter. The piteous sounds cut into him and he knelt down again, reaching out to comfort the small lostling. The child seemed to be a boy, barely older than his Coco had been the last time he'd seen her, wearing a soaked blue sweater and those modern denim trousers, though Héctor was far out of practice judging living faces. He could worry about the _how_ and _why_ later; right now there was a child coughing and trembling in front of him.

"Hey, chamaquito," he said softly, trying to gently sit the crying boy up and pull him the rest of the way out of the water. "It's okay, I got you…"

It seemed to be going well, the alebrije-dog nudging in to try to help, until the child's unsteady gaze zeroed in on Héctor's hands, following the bony arms up to blink at his skeletal face. Then the tearful eyes went wide, and the little boy wailed and weakly struggled away from him.

… _whoops. Oh no…_

"Easy now, easy!" Héctor soothed, wincing at the terror in the child's eyes. "Hey, hey, it's okay! Calm down, I'm not a bad guy!"

"Esqueleto!" the boy cried, his voice raspy from coughing. "Don't eat me!"

"No way, I don't eat kids. Blegh. What do I look like, a zombie?" Héctor tilted his head to give the child a look, deliberately, hilariously serious. "You need to get your Halloween stories right, kid. I'm a skeleton, I don't need to eat _anything_."

Apparently confused by this perfectly reasoned response, the little boy clung to the alebrije-dog (and what was a _living_ child doing with an alebrije in the first place?) and stared at Héctor, sniffling. "…are you a _good_ monster?"

Héctor let his smile gentle. "I don't know how _good_ I am, but I'm not a monster. I'm just a guy, and I just happen to be a skeleton. See?" He held out his hand again, nonthreatening, wiggling his fingers to let the boy watch the play of bones. "You seem a little lost, eh?"

For the first time, the small boy looked at his surroundings, his face going alarmed and confused once again. His gaze settled on the alebrije he was holding on to, and he ran a small hand over the creature's bright skin as the alebrije-dog licked his cheek. "Dante's got funny colors…"

Héctor frowned. "This is _your_ alebrije?"

"No…yes?" The boy looked perplexed. "Dante's just a dog…"

"Maybe not _just_ a dog," Héctor mused, noting the child's shivering. "Hey, how about we get you somewhere dry and warm, and _then_ figure out what happened to Dante, hm?"

The boy looked small and exhausted and utterly lost, looking up into Héctor's eyes. "I wanna go home."

"Okay, yeah, I'll get you home," Héctor nodded, though he honestly had _no idea_ what to do in a situation like this—but how could he deny those eyes? They had his incorporeal heart in a death grip already, they looked so much like Coco's. "Come on…let's get you out of that wet stuff and get you warmed up, okay?" He offered his hand again. "It's okay, chamaco. I'm Héctor. What's your name?"

"M-Miguel," the little boy replied, reaching out ever so hesitantly. "Miguel…Rivera."

Héctor grinned, helping the child up to stand on shaky legs. "Ay, what a happy coincidence! My name's Rivera too. Maybe we're distant cousins—family, you know?"

"Really?"

"Well, there's a _ton_ of Riveras out there, so who knows?" Héctor winked, keeping his tone light despite the uneasy hamster-wheel of _what do I do?_ his thoughts were in. "But it could be. It's a nice thought, right? It means you can count on me."

"Okay," Miguel responded, seeming a little less stressed.

Héctor didn't like how unsteady the boy looked, so he crouched down in front of him. "Here—climb on, chamaco."

"Is it okay?" the boy quavered.

"Sure, sure! I'm a skeleton, you can't really hurt me!" Héctor replied, his tone belying his own doubts. He was Nearly-Forgotten and his joints were weak as putty, but he'd give it his best shot. He still had plenty of willpower left to put into sticking together.

Then the boy climbed onto his back, small knees nudging at his ribs, and a body that was mostly water was _heavy_ but Héctor found he had the strength to stand. The weight pulled at his arm bones as he threaded them under the child's legs, but he gladly held fast and started on his way home, the alebrije-dog bouncing happily at his heels.

The small heavy burden made his limp so much worse, but it was worth the trouble when Héctor felt the shivering child rest his head against his shoulder blade, tired and trusting.


	3. Origin

Héctor had no idea what to do with the living child ensconced in his hut, any more than he knew what to do with the strange alebrije-dog that was glued to the boy like a long-tongued magnet or the multitude of startled eyes they'd passed on their way into Shantytown, or the alarmed whispers and curious questions of his neighbors.

Oh, he knew how to _care for_ a child—it might have been many decades since he was last a parent to a youngster, but there were some things you just never forgot. He'd gotten little Miguel out of sight into his hut and set the boy to stripping out of his sodden clothes while Héctor hung them up to dry and scrambled around to find a clean(ish) shirt or _something_ to dress the child in. He had no heater or stove (cold or wet wasn't a concern to skeletons, other than a matter of comfort, but a living child could catch his death!) and nothing to burn for warmth. In the end, Miguel sat on Héctor's own rickety cot, snuggled up to the alebrije-dog and enveloped in a raggedy wool poncho even older than Héctor that had been doing duty as a window curtain of sorts.

What Héctor _didn't_ know was how he should handle the discovery of a living child in the Land of the Dead. He'd never heard of anything like this before, and he'd heard some _strange_ things in his afterlife. He was pretty sure he should tell someone, perhaps the officials, or maybe try to locate the boy's deceased family somewhere. He wasn't even sure if a child turning up in the Land of the Dead should still be considered alive, or if the boy was actually dead and just…hadn't come in through the right check-in station to end up a skeleton like the rest of them.

Or something like that. For the moment, Héctor's primary concern was getting Miguel dry. At least the shivering had stopped.

"…and everybody was kinda mad that Rosa an' me followed Abel, ‘cause I'm seven and not _twelve_ like him, but then there was this really loud scream, kind of, and everybody just ran all of a sudden, then I guess I fell in the river an' I was really scared, but then Dante tried to save me." Cuddled with poncho and alebrije-dog, Miguel was chattering—shyly but with growing confidence—about his terrifying adventure of the evening. "Then I think I saw something, while I was swimming. Like a white ghost chasing us in the water. But then we sank and I thought I was gonna die, but then I was here and you came."

"Chased by a ghost, eh?" Héctor commented lightly, even as he frantically rifled through his belongings in search of something for the boy to eat. So far, all he'd found were sticky, empty liquor bottles, which he'd quickly dumped into a box and shoved out of the child's sight. "That's an interesting way to end up in the Land of the Dead."

The boy went quiet for a long beat. "…this is the Land of the Dead?"

… _whoops. Damn it._

"Um, yes!" Héctor turned to grin encouragingly at the wide-eyed child, wincing again when Miguel's lip started to tremble.

"Am…am _I_ dead?" the boy quavered. "The river—Abuelita always said—"

"Oh no, no no no!" Héctor frantically waved his hands, though he couldn't really be sure of the answer himself. "If you _were_ dead, you'd be a skeleton like me! You're just a little lost, I think."

"Oh…"

Miguel sniffled and clung tighter to Dante, but the tears didn't come and Héctor heaved a relieved sigh. He really couldn't take it if the child started crying again; it was a cruel trick of fate the boy's eyes reminded him so sharply of his daughter's, and the bittersweet tug of looking at them was bad enough without adding fear and weeping to the picture.

"Yeah, see? You're just fine," Héctor hurried to reassure the child, abandoning his search for edibles in favor of coming over to sit on the cot, near the boy but not too close. "I _used_ to be alive like you, but now I'm dead as a doorknob, so I'm a skeleton. You're still alive, so you've got skin and everything."

"Okay." Miguel looked mildly reassured, but not much less worried, and his small voice was tremulous. "Héctor? Can I go home now? Please?"

"Don't worry, chamaco." Héctor's mouth ran away from him, ready to promise the moon to the boy with Coco's eyes. "I'll find a way to get you home. We might have to talk to some people, but I'll figure something out!"

"You don't know the way?"

"Well…" he hedged, cringing a little. "It's kind of ridiculously easy to get _into_ the Land of the Dead, but it's not so easy to get back out."

_It's really God-damned difficult, actually._

"I came here from the river," Miguel volunteered hopefully. "Maybe if we got a boat…?"

"Oh, I wish it was that simple, kid," Héctor sighed. "Trust me, I've tried. But you could row forever out there on the Water and I think there's nothing but mist. There's a couple of places up in the city we can go to ask, where they take care of people coming and going from the Land of the Dead."

"People come and go?"

"Sure, as long as you're Remembered and you have a photo on an ofrenda, you can go back to the land of the living on Día de Muertos, to visit your family and take your offerings."

"So that's why Abuelita wants all the offerings to be just right," Miguel realized, eyes widening. "And the path of marigold petals, and all the photos…!"

"Sounds like you have a good abuela." Héctor smiled wistfully. "She takes care of your family. So you gotta get back to them."

"Yeah," Miguel agreed. "I'm already gonna be late. Mamá's gonna be _so mad_ when she finds out I followed Abel…"

"That's right, no more sneaking out at night, okay?" Héctor nudged. "So, chamaco, can you tell me where you live? The state, the town? Do you know your address? That way we can go to the right Department office, and they'll be able to send you home faster."

"I live in Santa Cecilia," the boy replied easily, hopefully.

"Really!" Héctor's brows climbed. "Well that makes things easier, I know the guys at the Santa Cecilia Department."

_Or it could be really awkward._

Small world indeed, to run into another Rivera from Santa Cecilia, even as common as the name was. He tried to ignore the strange feeling that coiled into his non-existent stomach.

"Do you think they know the Rivera Familia de Zapateros?" Miguel asked him innocently, looking hopeful. "Everybody in Santa Cecilia knows it. That's where I live."

_Wait, wait, wait. **What?**_

Héctor turned his head to stare at the boy so fast he almost lost a couple of vertebrae and nearly dropped his jawbone into his lap. "Rivera Shoemakers?" he gulped, suddenly numb. "You're…?"

"My house is on the Calle del Paraíso, with a big sign on it shaped like a shoe."

It was an _effort_ to get his slack mouth to work. "Do…do you know…Coco?"

"Mamá Coco? Yeah!" Miguel was honest and enthusiastic. "My abuelita is her daughter. Mamá Coco's my _favorite_ grandma! I always play with her, and sometimes she even…" The little boy trailed off, blinking wide eyes when bony fingertips traced his round cheek.

_Coco's grandson…!_

Héctor couldn't tear his eyes away from the small face, stunned shock robbing him of all other thought. Whatever passed as his heart had leaped into his throat, whatever remained of his stomach had dropped to the floor, and whatever essence of brain that still rattled in his skull continued to spin like a dizzying tornado.

Coco's eyes—they really _were_ Coco's eyes.

_You're Coco's. You're **family**._

It hit like a crashing ocean wave. He had a great-great-grandson. And he'd missed his daughter's _entire life_.

It felt like the first years of his death all over again. The grief and bitterness, the self-hate and regrets, and he wanted to scream at the unfairness of it, to rail and weep and shout and throw things like he had decades ago. He'd never felt like more of a damned fool for leaving than this moment, looking into the small, innocent face of all that he'd missed.

Miguel didn't recognize him, staring up at him in confusion with Coco's eyes. Héctor's heart broke.

"Just—I need—wait here…" He pulled away from the uneasy child, stumbling over his words as much as his own feet as he all but fled. "Stay— _stay put_ , I'll…be right back…"

Mind spinning, Héctor ducked out of his hut before he could fall to pieces.


	4. Earthquake

Héctor paced at the waterfront, dodging the gazes of his Shantytown family and trying to keep from collapsing in tears or screaming aloud—though for what exact reason he couldn't be certain. (He'd left his hat somewhere in the house and he didn't care.) He felt too many things all at once, gritting his teeth and tugging at his hair as he held back the maelstrom inside. If he yelled, everyone would hear—Miguel might hear—and the entire Shantytown Family would get in the middle of this.

He had always been very conscious of the passage of years, even in the Land of the Dead where time had little meaning. He knew, intellectually, that his baby girl had grown up without him, that she had married and had children of her own, even grandchildren that he'd never gotten to see. Even so, he still had trouble picturing her as an adult, much less a grandmother, or anything but the small child he'd left in Santa Cecilia for his fool's errand.

 _Miguel Rivera_ hit him like a train. The gulf of years had never felt vaster and heavier than now, presented with his _great-great-grandson_ who called his daughter _Mamá Coco_ and obviously loved her—she was a child's favorite grandmother. She was loved, and _old_ , and living such a full life, all without him. She had children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and Héctor had missed _all of it_.

He wasn't sure how it was possible to be so unspeakably happy and so utterly swamped with grief in the same moment. He had a little boy back in his hut, real and warm and _alive_ under his fingertips, the proof of his daughter's rich and joyful life. A little piece of the family he'd been cut off from for almost a century. A small echo with his daughter's warm brown eyes, like everything he'd missed packaged up and delivered to him as a surprise gift—or a glimpse in a dream to be snatched away in the morning light like so many times before.

Maybe he _was_ dreaming. Maybe he was drunk out of his mind on the pyramid steps outside Shantytown and whatever figment of his wishful thinking was Miguel Rivera would vanish the moment he opened his eyes. It would be typical.

But Miguel's skin was soft and warm, and Héctor had not felt such things in so long he wasn't sure he could imagine it so clearly any more, even in a dream. Miguel had to be real.

He found that he _wanted_ Miguel to be real. He wanted it desperately.

It had been so long since Héctor's short life, sometimes it felt as if he'd always been dead—always been a fading skeleton of a man wandering the back streets and drifting into the town of the Nearly-Forgotten, and whatever life he'd had was just an old dream. But his love for his daughter was too strong to let himself sink into that comfortable delusion. Coco was real, and little Miguel was proof that she'd lived a long, happy life.

Miguel was proof that _Héctor_ had lived. That some part of him _still_ lived.

Knowing he could never truly be completely erased was a warm feeling that cut through even the weariness and anguish of being slowly Forgotten. Even if no one Remembered him, even if no one knew his name and he crumbled to dust in the next few years, _he had existed once_ , and Miguel would always be proof of that.

The Land of the Dead was no place for a living child. Héctor wanted to shake his fist and snarl at whatever strange fate would dump a seven year old boy into the Waters long before his time. It was _imperative_ that he get Miguel back home to Santa Cecilia, even if Héctor himself could never go there again. Miguel was still alive (he was nearly certain) and deserved as long and full a life as Coco had.

If her grandson went missing, Coco would be sad, and Héctor couldn't bear the thought.

And he'd run off and left the little boy alone in his creaky drafty hut with no explanation.

… _whoops. Come on, tonto, pull yourself together!_

Héctor's feet were taking him back toward his own house before he was consciously aware of it, buoyed by a fresh determination he hadn't felt in decades. It gave him the strength to straighten his shoulders and push down the pain inside. His own emotional issues were secondary to Miguel's well-being—he could have a breakdown _after_ he got the boy home safely. Miguel was family, and possibly his one and only chance to finally do something right by them.

Once again he was dodging questions from his neighbors on his way back; many had glimpsed the bundle he'd carried home with him and though few of them were certain what they'd seen, _everyone_ had heard about it. He weaved away from them, mumbling, "Sorry, ‘scuse me, can't talk now," (his being uncommunicative was gossip-worthy by itself) as he hurried toward his hut.

Pushing aside the ratty canvas tarp that served as his door, Héctor found Miguel just where he'd left him, huddled up against Dante on the cot at the back of the hut. The boy looked up quickly when he entered, clinging to the alebrije-dog like a life preserver.

Seeing Miguel's worried, expectant face made Héctor realize he had no idea what to say. No idea what to do. His usual script had been thrown straight out the window. This was his _grandson_ , not some random kid to be cheered and cajoled.

They stared at each other for half a minute before Miguel shrank back against the alebrije-dog and looked away, fiddling with the tattered poncho wrapped around him.

"Ah…sorry about that," Héctor offered at last, awkwardly hesitant. "I had to…uh…I was…"

"…are you mad at me?" Miguel mumbled into Dante's neck.

" _What?_ No!" Startled, Héctor waved his hands in denial. What sort of expression had he been wearing when he was storming around? "No no no! I'm not mad."

_Mad at myself, maybe. Not you._

"Is it because of my family?"

" _No!_ No— _listen_ , chamaco." Héctor hurried over and sat gingerly on the edge of the cot, putting himself closer to the child's eye level. "I'm not mad at you. Okay? It's just some stupid grownup stuff, not your fault."

Miguel side-eyed him with a childishly serious frown, leaning on the alebrije-dog. "Are you mad at my Mamá Coco? ‘Cause if you know her—"

" _Never_ —I _love_ Coco, she's my little girl!" Héctor blurted, moments before realizing he probably shouldn't have said anything. Or at least _thought_ before he said something.

Miguel was staring at him now. "You're…Mamá Coco's papá? The músico who left?"

_Here it comes._

"…yes." Héctor winced, but didn't shrink away from the anger he knew would follow.

Miguel was silent for long beats, brows perplexed and thoughtful. "Why didn't you come home? Mamá Coco misses you."

"She _does?_ " Héctor gaped at the boy, hit with another freight train.

… _he's…not…angry…?_

"Yeah," Miguel replied, uncertain. "Only sometimes. When she forgets that she's my grandma, she asks everyone when you're coming home."

"I _wanted_ to go home," Héctor forced past the thorny lump that should not be in his incorporeal throat. "I wanted to so much, but…the day I was coming home, I died…!"

"Oh…" The child looked a little surprised himself. "I didn't know that. Abuelita says you wanted to play music for the world, an' you didn't care about family."

That was an axe to the chest. He'd known that Imelda was angry with him for leaving her alone, but to tell his grandchildren that he _didn't care?_ Had she truly lost so much faith in him? Had she _ever_ really believed in him at all?

"Of _course_ I care!" he all but rasped. He was letting too much slip, especially to an innocent child, but there was family here that was _listening_ and he just kept _talking_. "I didn't leave home to be famous, I left to find a way to make enough money with my music that my family wouldn't go hungry!"

Miguel was looking at him so intently. "And you _were_ gonna come home…right?"

"Yes. If I hadn't died—" Héctor nearly choked on his bitter grief, like the sickening bile in his throat that long-ago night. "I would have been home by morning. I promise, I was going home. I would never just abandon my girls—!"

Before he could continue, he was nearly bowled off the cot as Miguel flung his arms around Héctor's neck.

"I knew it!" The little boy's voice in his ear was reedy and full of triumphant hope. "I _knew_ you weren't a bad man!"

_He's…not angry…_

Stunned by it all, Héctor held the child on reflex. Something loosened that had been wound tight in his chest for a very long time, so long he'd almost forgotten about it.

"Mamá Coco wouldn't love you so much if you were really bad like Abuelita says," Miguel went on, sounding almost excited. "That means music isn't all bad either! You didn't really leave forever on purpose, you just died an' that's an accident!"

_He's not angry…!_

Dimly Héctor thought that this could be the first time that family wasn't furious with him for everything he'd done wrong. He wasn't being pushed away, he was being _embraced_. The small arms around his neck felt like acceptance; the happiness in Miguel's voice was almost forgiveness. Even if it was Imelda's forgiveness he truly needed and might never have, it meant more to him than words could say that one innocent grandson could give him a single drop of pardon for not being there.

Miguel was just a little boy who probably didn't really understand, but he _listened_. Miguel heard his story, believed it, and accepted him. No laughing or snarling.

The horrid knot in his chest was slipping loose, falling away. (What had he promised about not breaking down while Miguel needed him? One little boy's acceptance was enough to scour away decades of hard-won armor.) At long last, someone wanted him. One little bit of family, one small child, _just one_ , but that was enough. That was _everything_.

Héctor clutched Miguel tighter than he'd held anything in a long, long time. His grandson's hair was already damp; a few more drops of water went unnoticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one candle can keep back the dark.


	5. Parallel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some have wondered why Miguel so easily made the connection to “Mamá Coco’s papá! Great-great-grandpa musician!” And that’s entirely Héctor’s own fault! He’d already planted the idea in the kid’s head that they could be family, what with having the same last name, so Miguel was already thinking that they were.
> 
> On top of that, this poor kid is kind of thrilled to have another musician in the family; I think he’d probably even take “very distant Cousin Héctor” at this point, just to have an ally.
> 
> Parallel lines run the same course but never meet.

"…an' Rosa said La Llorona was just a myth, but she's a _know-it-all_ so she's not always right. Papá thinks old stories are, um, good for learning culture? But he told me we should always make sure things are true, too. I didn't think the Día de Muertos stories were _really_ true, kinda like vitamins or Santo Clós, but Abuelita always said the family comes to visit and now I met you, so it must be real…"

Héctor could hardly remember the last time he'd been this happy or this content; lounging on his cot, his back against the rough hut wall with Miguel cuddled under his arm, quietly listening to the little boy babble enthusiastically about his home and his family. He absorbed every word like a thirsty man at a well, humming and nodding in the right places to keep the child talking.

It reminded him of _home_ , of years and years ago, sitting on a threadbare rug in the front room listening to his daughter chatter all about her day. He could stay just like this forever, absently petting the boy's soft hair, anchored by the warm weight against his side.

His family was so much bigger than he'd ever imagined. Miguel bounced from topic to topic like young children did, but Héctor managed to glean a great deal just from context and those somewhat-disjointed tales.

Miguel's abuela (Elena, his _granddaughter!_ ) was strict and scary but loving (he imagined she must be very like Imelda) and fed everyone too much and hugged smotheringly. Miguel loved his mamá (his great-grandson Enrique's wife) and she was the nicest and prettiest person in the world (Héctor could of course argue, but every little boy was allowed to think that until he grew up and met his soulmate) unless Miguel was in big trouble. Miguel's Tío Berto (Elena's oldest boy) was the manager of the Riveras' shoe shop in the living world, and he could be gruff but he'd also sneak sweets to the children. Miguel had two aunts, both of whom gave way too many kisses, but Héctor hadn't caught which one was his great-granddaughter and which was Berto's wife (and mother of Miguel's two cousins, Abel and Rosa).

There were _so many_. So much he'd never known, never seen. They sounded so happy and wonderful. Héctor would probably be feeling incredibly lonely hearing about everything he couldn't have, but the little boy close beside him chased the isolation away like a sunrise driving off the night. Miguel's voice was music filling the empty silence.

"…when she said music makes you leave your family, but you're not really bad and you didn't _really_ want to leave forever, an' now I get to have a _good_ musician in my family!" Miguel was grinning at him, bright as sunshine, petting the sleeping alebrije-dog curled against his leg.

It was an odd feeling to recognize his own grin on the boy; he'd always thought Coco looked just like her beautiful mamá, and never considered children that looked like _him_. "I don't think I'm much of a musician any more, mijo…I haven't played in years."

"That's okay," Miguel told him matter-of-factly. "All you need is practice."

With a short laugh, Héctor ruffled his grandson's hair. "You…are quite an optimist."

"I am not!" Miguel scowled. "…what's that?"

"It means you see the good in things," Héctor replied easily. "Even messy old has-beens like me."

"I always thought music is good," Miguel mumbled, thrown by the compliment. "Except my family always said it's bad, so I couldn't talk about it. They were all mad at you. But…I always wondered about you."

"Not exactly what you expected, eh?" He knew he wasn't much these days; a clumsy, scatterbrained, broken, Nearly-Forgotten, booze-swilling hobo in a damp, sagging hut, everything cast aside but his last few desperate bids to cross a Bridge. "I'm a pretty sorry excuse for a great-great-grandpa…"

"You don't _look_ like an abuelo," the boy admitted, studying Héctor's face. "But you're Mamá Coco's papá, so you're still my musician grandpa."

Héctor wanted to hug his grandson again and never let go. He settled for tightening his arm around the child and blinking away the threat of tears.

_I wondered about my family too, but I could never have imagined someone like you._

He knew children could be remarkably forgiving. He knew Miguel probably didn't know or understand the whole story. But at least for now, for this one night, he had family that didn't hate him, and he couldn't bear to let go of it just yet.

_Just a bit more. Then I'll take you back. I promise. Just let me hold you for a little while longer…_

"I'm always different from my cousins," Miguel went on, hesitant. "From my whole family. Abuelita's always mad at me, and Papá's always telling me off, and Mamá always looks sad…"

"Because you like music?" The Rivera Shoemakers' infamous music ban was well-known even in the Land of the Dead, though Héctor had never seen its effects on the family firsthand (apart from the times Imelda threw things at him early on when he attempted to serenade her—though that could have been simply because she was angry with him).

"I love music," the boy admitted, mumbly as if expecting a scolding. "It makes me happy. But my family hates it, so I'm _always_ in trouble."

"What, are you running off to Mariachi Plaza all the time or something?" Héctor raised a brow curiously. "You're a bit young to go out all by yourself yet."

"No," Miguel grumbled. "I'm not _allowed_ to go in the Plaza. Nobody's supposed to go there, ‘cause there's _musicians_ everywhere. But I don't have to go to the Plaza, I just want to sing sometimes. I'm careful so I just hum _really_ quietly. But sometimes I forget to be quiet. Or I tap my foot or my fingers. That's when Abuelita gets really mad."

"Ah…" Frowning, Héctor watched the boy's downcast face. How far did the music ban _go?_ It was one thing to keep the children away from musical performances or bar them from playing an instrument—that was every parent's prerogative, stifling though it could be—but to scold a child for humming to himself or tapping out a beat? That seemed almost extreme.

It seemed, he realized with a sinking heart, very _Imelda_. She had always been a very _all or nothing_ sort of person, her love as absolute as her antipathy. It was probably true, then, that once she'd decided there would be no music in her household, there would be not a _hint_ of music at all.

"I don't want to leave my family for music!" Miguel went on, looking up at him pleadingly. "An' I don't _mean_ to make everybody mad. It just _happens_. Whenever I forget, or I'm thinking, or I'm playing by myself, it just _comes out_. I don't know why, I just always end up doing _something_ music, and then everyone is yelling at me…"

_That's probably my fault too._

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Héctor soothed, pulling his grandson close again. "I won't be mad at you, and I won't yell. I know how that feels, when the music inside just won't shut up and you feel like you're gonna split right open like a ripe melon if you can't sing, huh?"

"Y-yeah!" Miguel's eyes were _huge_ , as if no one had ever put the feeling to words for him before. "Just like that! It's almost like it hurts if I don't. But it makes my family hate me—"

"No way," Héctor cut him off. "How could anyone hate a little guy like you? You just told me all those wonderful things about your family. They love you, even when they're mad at you."

"But…!"

"They just don't understand how it is for you. That doesn't mean they hate you."

"I _told_ them how I couldn't help it," Miguel grumbled, glaring down at his hands. "Abuelita just said I needed to start learning how to shine shoes, and shoes would keep me from thinking about music. A Rivera is a shoemaker, through and through."

"Did it help?" Certainly keeping busy could stave off some of the worst of it.

"No," Miguel huffed glumly. "I just ended up humming _in the workshop_ , and then everybody really _was_ yelling at me."

"Ay, you poor thing…" Héctor winced. It was as if all the music he'd locked away in his soul, all the music Imelda had stopped singing and stifled for generations, had come back to life crammed into this one child and left the helpless boy bursting at the seams with a century's worth of song. Unlike the rest of his family, Miguel simply had _too much_ music inside him to hide or ignore.

_You really are my boy, aren't you._

Héctor had given up music because of the pain it caused, because of how much it had taken from him, but that didn't mean it just _stopped_. He was an adult and made his own choices; when the music inside bubbled up too much, he drank what he could get his hands on or threw himself into plotting Bridge schemes (which meant he did those things a lot). Miguel was much too young to have the kind of iron self-control it took to deny the center of his being.

_It's my fault. I gave this to you._

He had a grandson with his grin and his music, and that set the child at odds with his own kin. Even now, Héctor's music hurt his family. It hurt this boy.

_I'm so sorry._

"I promise, as long as you're here, I won't be mad or yell at you about music." Héctor resolved that his grandson should have at least one night of peace, without worrying that someone would snap at him for tapping a toe.

Miguel threw his arms around Héctor's ribs. "I _knew_ you'd understand."

_I do. Dios mío do I understand._

"We can still try hard to keep it down, out of love for family," Héctor went on firmly, "but I'm not going to get mad at you."

"I just wanted _someone_ to not be mad," Miguel mumbled into Héctor's jacket front.

"I know, mijo." Héctor stroked the boy's hair and held him. "I know."

_Me too._

It had to be getting terribly late, or terribly _early_ ; he didn't have a clock, but he was fairly sure it had been past midnight when he'd brought his grandson in, and they'd been sitting here talking for hours while the alebrije-dog snored on the end of the cot. Skeletons didn't really need to sleep, though they could if they wished, but staying up to the wee hours of morning wasn't good for a young living child. He was really setting a horrible example.

"How about this, chamaco." Héctor deliberately lightened his tone to change the subject. "It's late, so you can sleep here for tonight, and then first thing in the morning we'll get some help getting you home. Sound good?"

‘ _Til morning. That's as long as I'll allow myself._

"Like a sleepover party?" the little boy considered.

"Just like," Héctor nodded. "Except I'm afraid sleepovers with grandparents aren't very exciting, so there'll just be sleep and not party. Us old folks don't have much energy."

"But I'm not tired," Miguel protested, followed immediately by a sizeable yawn.

"Oho, I just bet you're not," Héctor snorted in amusement. Miguel was just like little Coco. "Come on, down you go."

"Awww…"

Héctor had to get up to make room to lay the child down on the cot, despite his own reluctance to let go. The sole, thin blanket was stained and tatty, and there was no pillow but the snuffling, half-asleep alebrije-dog. His bed wasn't much, but it would have to do.

"Are you warm enough?"

"Mm…" Miguel's reply was mumbled and apparently affirmative, the little boy curling up in a tangle with Dante. Despite his protests, he had to be exhausted; his eyes were already falling shut.

"Okay. Sleep well, mijo…I'll be right here."

"…buenas noches, Papá Héctor…"

Héctor's ethereal heart leaped and he was struck speechless in a wave of affection. He couldn't help himself; weak-kneed, he sat right back down on the edge of the cot to shakily touch the boy's hair when words utterly failed him. The innocent child didn't really understand, and wasn't truly his, but for this one night Héctor could be a papá again, just a tiny bit.

Though he wasn't much of one, at that. Even as Miguel drifted off, Héctor was abruptly, acutely aware of the absolute _squalor_ he lived in: The rickety empty hut, the discarded liquor bottles, the barely-upright cot, the filthy ragged blanket and the poncho full of holes and the fact that he couldn't turn on a light or a heater for a damp child. He didn't even have any _food_.

He had to take Miguel away to safety tomorrow. He had to make sure his grandson went home, back to the land of the living, back to Santa Cecilia and his parents. The Land of the Dead was colorful but cold and empty, no place for a small innocent boy with a whole life ahead of him. And certainly Héctor was no good for him, Nearly-Forgotten with nothing but dust and tears to offer. Even delaying the child for one night was risky, thoughtless, _selfish_.

He would do the right thing tomorrow.

For tonight, he would stay where he was inexorably drawn: At the side of one precious child sleeping on a cot. He tried to memorize every moment of the evening; the wriggly weight in his arms, the sound of Miguel's voice, the living warmth of his skin, the baby-softness of his hair.

_I love you. So, so much._

The memory would be a candle to sustain him for the rest of the empty nights in his short eternity alone. He had no right to weep, yet weep he did.

_But I can't keep you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has now caught up with the postings on Tumblr so the updates will come slower. Apologies!


	6. Discern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this took so long and has so many glitches. Writing with constant distractions and interruptions is just an exercise in ARRRGH. I severely dislike losing my momentum while settled in to write a piece. (RL is such a troll sometimes.)

Héctor woke in an uncomfortable position half-upright against the wall on a corner of his cot. If he'd been alive, he would have needed a crowbar and a vise to get his spine unkinked again. As it was, it took considerable extra effort to get all his vertebrae realigned so that he could sit up.

For a moment, he wondered why he'd been sleeping in such an awkward way. Or sleeping at all; these days he had much more important things to occupy his rapidly dwindling time.

_"I knew you weren't a bad man!"_

_"You're still my musician grandpa."_

_"…buenas noches, Papá Héctor…"_

_Miguel._

Yesterday's memories crashed into him, sitting him up straight in realization, yet the cot was empty save for Héctor's brittle bones.

Had he really dreamed it all? Maybe he had. It was what he'd feared—that he'd gotten especially drunk and his crazed, lonely mind had offered him up a perfect little balm to his soul. It wasn't like his usual dreams where he'd make it home to his wife or his family came to find him. In a way, it was even worse, since it seemed to be everything he needed when he knew he could never truly attain any of his old dreams.

_Damn tequila. Makes me think dumb drunk wishes like a lonely fool and I don't even get a proper hangover excuse after..._

With a groan, he scrubbed his hands over his face and viciously cursed the alcohol and his own stupid mind, his dry nonexistent throat rasping the harsh words into the still air.

A soft, huffing bark made him freeze.

Leaning out from his cot, he peered toward the front of his hut, eyes tracking a familiar faint fluorescence. The strange alebrije-dog from his dream sat in the middle of the floor, looking over its shoulder at him curiously.

He struggled briefly to remember the creature's name. "D-Dante?" The dog was here, right in front of him. That meant either he was really going insane or—

_Miguel!_

Héctor clapped both hands over his mouth in horrified guilt. Just beyond the alebrije-dog, a tiny form clad in a ragged poncho was standing furtively at the entrance of his hut, peering out beyond the ratty canvas tarp that served as a door.

_...whoops. Idiot, idiot, idiot!_

The embarrassed relief was as powerful as the disappointment had been, the joy that flooded back completely overtaking the grief and anger that had briefly swamped him. It _wasn't_ a dream, Miguel was _real_ , and every wonderful thing he remembered had truly happened.

Héctor wobbled to his feet, his bad leg clicking and creaking beneath him. Twice now, he'd fallen prey to the fear that his grandson was nothing but a figment of his own imagination. He was so used to good things being snatched away, or simply out of reach. But Miguel was _right here_.

And he had to send the boy away. Today. This morning. No more dawdling.

Curious as to what had caught Miguel's attention so thoroughly (and glad that the boy seemed not to have noticed his outburst), Héctor limped over quietly. He realized he could already hear it; outside his hut, across the way, some of his Nearly-Forgotten compatriots were singing slightly-questionable songs over their bottles and cards while Tío Rafael played his barely-tuned fiddle. Miguel was watching them intently through the gap between doorframe and "door."

Héctor felt his mouth quirk into a slight smile. The child seemed entranced by the lively music, not even noticing his approach. "Buenos días, Miguel—"

The boy jumped half a foot in the air and whirled, wild-eyed, clapping his small hands over his ears. "I wasn't listening!"

Nonplussed, Héctor stepped back, hands raised. "Whoa, it's okay. I'm not gonna be mad, remember?"

Miguel's hands slowly fell back to his sides. "Oh...yeah..."

Much to Héctor's relief, his grandson stopped cringing from him like a puppy expecting a rolled-up newspaper, but the child still looked nervous.

"I don't play any more, but there's music all the time, here in Shantytown and all over the Land of the Dead," Héctor told him, gently herding both boy and dog away from the door to lessen the chances of prying eyes. "You'd have to go around with cotton stuffed in your ears to avoid it. So you're probably going to hear quite a bit of music today, but I'm still not gonna be mad."

Miguel's eyes were wide, as if Héctor had just offered him a five-course meal. "You mean it?"

"Of course I do." Dios mío, the ban must be _strict_ at home, if Miguel expected to be scolded for even overhearing the forbidden.

"No...no yelling if I listen?" the boy asked, as if skeptical of Héctor's amnesty.

Héctor paused briefly. Could his lenience be considered undermining a family rule? Butting in on policy for a family he technically had no more part in? But...he couldn't ignore the pinch in his chest, with the way this child looked so _starved_ for song.

_Right now he's **my** grandson. I can give him this._

He knelt slowly, placing his hand on Miguel's tiny, poncho-clad shoulder. "I made you a promise, mijo: I'm not going to get mad at you about music. We won't have time to stop at any street concerts or anything, but you can listen to whatever you want while we're walking."

Miguel hugged him again, small arms warm and tight. "Gracias, Papá Héctor!"

Héctor had yet another embrace to treasure in his memory. He could get very used to this, though he knew he shouldn't. Miguel would only know him for a few hours, less than a day, and Héctor hoped to give the boy happy memories in return for all the love he'd shared. Kindness, a little music in passing, maybe some laughter, and perhaps Miguel would remember him fondly in some small way, even after he was Forgotten.

Okay, so he wanted to spoil his grandson however he could, and it was only for a little longer. What could it hurt?

"Papá Héctor? Is there breakfast?"

_...whoops. Ay, of course there isn't, I'm a useless pile of bones in an empty hovel...!_

Héctor winced and let the boy go. "Um...no, not here I'm afraid, that's why we've got to go soon—we'll get you somewhere there's food, you'll see—"

He hurriedly began to pull Miguel's clothes down from where they'd been hung up to air dry (only a _little_ dampness remained in the thicker seams of the denim trousers) and offered them to the child, urging him to get dressed quickly. Héctor fetched his own straw hat, almost tripping over the excited alebrije-dog.

Alcohol was pretty easy to come by even for the Forgotten, since it was an incredibly common offering everywhere, but it had been a _long_ time since he'd eaten actual food. Years ago, a young girl returning from a visit across the Bridge had taken pity on his dejected failure and given him one of her sweetbread offerings in an innocent attempt to cheer him even as her family hustled her away from the shabby Forgotten hooligan. He remembered the girl's kind eyes more than he remembered the taste of the food. He'd shared the treat with his Shantytown family, and kept only a morsel to eat for himself.

The Department should have food. It was a big office full of Remembered dead, they ought to practically have a cafeteria full of snacks! Or maybe a stockpile of confiscated offerings; since everyone had to declare the gifts they brought back, there had to be some kind of rules about things that couldn't be carried in.

But...if the Department _didn't_ have food, Héctor wasn't sure where else to turn. Food in the Land of the Dead was a luxury, often worth far more than gems or coins. When it was consumed, it was gone, and the only way to get more was during the Day of the Dead, when thousands of skeletons brought back their offerings from the land of the living. Most smaller families returned with only a basket or two after feasting with their living family, a modest collection of treats to be enjoyed bit by bit until the next year.

He'd heard tales of how the wealthier and more famous skeletons brought in whole wagons full of food, but he'd never seen it himself. Maybe the rumors were exaggerated—what in the world could one skeleton do with that much food?

And what if the Department couldn't get Miguel home right away? What if they didn't know how and it took time to figure it out? The boy would need more food; Héctor remembered eating as many as _three meals a day_ when he was alive and times weren't lean. What would the Department do with Miguel if it took longer? Would there be enough food? Would he have a warm place to sleep, or would they put the child in a cell? What if there wasn't a way to send Miguel home?

Miguel needed his _family_ , not—

_I should take him to Imelda._

Héctor cringed at his own thought even as it occurred to him. But it was _true_ , Imelda was much better equipped to tackle the problem of a living grandchild in the Land of the Dead.

Imelda's family was comfortable, with their own house and everything. They had ofrendas to visit, offerings to bring home. That would mean food, clothes, a warm place to sleep. The Rivera Shoemakers were respected in the local community, and Imelda had enough influence and sheer stubbornness to walk right over the entire Department—every single office, desk, guard, and clerk!—to make sure they did everything possible to help Miguel. Héctor they could ignore; Imelda would never let herself be ignored!

_If I take him there, I'll never see him again._

And now he was just being selfish. Miguel was going home to the land of the living anyway, a place Héctor could never visit. It would have been goodbye forever either way. His living grandson's well-being was far more important than that of a long-dead, Nearly-Forgotten musician who'd had nothing to do with the family for decades. They didn't need him; Miguel didn't need him.

Miguel _needed_ a safe place with his family until he could be sent back home. Imelda could provide that far better than some impersonal bureaucracy dealing with thousands of problems every day. It might be far riskier a place for Héctor to go than the Department office, but surely Imelda would pause her wrath for just a moment, for Miguel's sake. It had been _years_ since he'd bothered her last; maybe she'd cooled off a little bit.

_And maybe the sun has cooled off a little bit, too... Okay, tonto, game face._

As Miguel finished putting his shoes back on, Héctor dropped the ragged, oversized poncho on the boy again as a coat to keep him warm. He grinned when his grandson squawked, and knelt to help Miguel tug the woolen garment down over his head.

"All set, chamaco?"

Hair all askew like a little porcupine, Miguel nodded with bright eyes. "Where are we going?"

"Your home away from home! Everyone there will be so happy to see you, and they'll have food." Héctor smiled encouragingly as he stood up again. "But it's kind of a long walk, and we need to hurry."

"Okay!" Trusting, Miguel held the hand Héctor offered. "And I can listen to music while we're walking an' you won't be mad, right?"

"That's right." Nudging the canvas tarp aside, Héctor peered out his door and was relieved to see few people up and about aside from Tío Rafael's small crowd.

They'd both have to walk, as Héctor's bad leg couldn't take Miguel's weight for as long as the journey would be. This was going to be a harrowing trip, using back streets and a brisk pace to keep too many eyes from settling on the living child for too long. The poncho covered most of Miguel's fleshy limbs, but his round-cheeked little face was far too obvious.

"Ah!" With a snap of his fingers, Héctor settled on a solution. Reaching up with his free hand, he lifted the tattered straw hat from his own head and set it on Miguel's. "There we go."

"It's too big!" his grandson giggled as he nudged the hat low on the boy's forehead. It was indeed too large for a child, and thus was perfect block the view of most adults that got too near.

"It's supposed to be," Héctor told him, chuckling. "You're in disguise! Ready? Let's go!"

With Dante bounding eagerly alongside, Héctor set off up the rickety boardwalk with Miguel in tow (thankfully his hurried, limping pace didn't seem to be more than his grandson could keep up with). He pretended he didn't hear the few distant greetings and questions his Shantytown Family called after him, and no one tried to stop them. Maybe he could actually do this!

They'd barely made it out the gate of Shantytown before disaster struck.

"Papá Héctor?" Miguel tugged at his hand as they hurried along. "I gotta use the bathroom!"

_...whoops. That's still a thing, isn't it._

Slack-jawed, Héctor stood frozen while his grandson gazed at him expectantly. He remembered then that he'd never, ever seen a restroom in the Land of the Dead. Why _would_ there be?

_Por Dios, I am not qualified for this!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m kinda bummed that this chapter didn’t get where I expected to go already. x_x Sigh. Think faster, Héctor! (Think faster, Becky!)


	7. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anybody wonders, remember that in another lifeline, Héctor Rivera had the moxie to punch Pepita in the nose when he thought she was after his chamaco. This is not a cowardly man, for all that he graciously yields to more forceful personalities…most of the time.

These days, Héctor always felt terribly out of place up in the nicer sections of the city. Everything was clean, clearly lit, and brightly painted, pretty as a picture in the mid-morning sunlight. The skeletons walking to and fro about their business were well-dressed and had the white, sturdy bones of the Remembered. The stares and whispers, however—disdainful and sometimes horrified, unlike the mere curiosity of his Shantytown peers—made him glad he'd kept to the side streets and alleys, acutely conscious of his awkward gait, ragged clothes, and chipped, weathered bones.

The Forgotten were _memorable_ when they appeared outside their dank domain below—as memorable as a leper at a gala ball, and just about as welcome. It was always the same; the constant prickle of open stares, or the cold shoulder of being deliberately ignored.

At least if they were staring at _him_ , they were less likely to notice the little shadow he led along by the hand, or at least more likely to pass it off as a Forgotten child—something they wanted to acknowledge even less.

Miguel was doing a good job of keeping up, uncomplaining, though his small head swiveled this way and that the whole trip, in awe of the bright maze that was the massive city of the dead and its inhabitants (they'd taken care of Miguel's business in a dark corner just outside of Shantytown, where hopefully no one would really notice one more puddle on the damp pyramid stones). The boy was probably getting tired from the very long walk, but he gamely kept going; he had a _lot_ of questions, but was mostly distracted by anything resembling music. Every time they passed another source of song, the child locked on to it like a pointer dog until they passed out of earshot or another one appeared.

Soon enough, the instances of music thinned and vanished as they walked, driven away by the austere silence of the forbidden zone surrounding the quiet street Héctor knew far too well. The sense of impending doom curled his shoulders more with every step; he was walking into the jaguar's den and he knew it, but a little stomach growled audibly at his side like a tiny angry alebrije and he continued putting one foot in front of the other.

If he kept thinking about Miguel, he wouldn't think about the anger and rejection that awaited him. Miguel was love and warmth and a ready smile and a cheerful voice that danced like happy guitar music and hugs that felt like home.

With every step he took, he grew closer to losing that joy forever.

But Miguel needed food and care and everything Héctor couldn't provide, and that was far more important than his own wants.

Almost before he knew it (before he wanted it), they were in front of the familiar gate, overshadowed by the large sign shaped like a shoe. The high wall was brightly painted; the house beyond it was even taller, built upward to contain the family like all structures in the Land of the Dead. It was quiet within, the courtyard shaded from the sun by colorful sheets of fabric tied up in gentle swoops.

"Papá Héctor," Miguel whispered, staying close to his side, "this looks kinda like my house. See? There's the same sign."

"That's because it kind of _is_ your house," Héctor said softly, forcing the sadness out of his tone. "Or it will be your house, someday. It's your family's house, where everyone lives when they're not visiting your ofrenda."

"Oh." Miguel looked up at the gate a moment longer. "They have breakfast here?"

_Dios mío, I hope so!_

"Let's go find out." Carefully, Héctor pushed the gate further open and led the boy into the courtyard. Up this high, the ground was wood and brick rather than stone, the yard tastefully decorated with art and sculpture here and there to give the look of plants and shrubs. There was even a small fountain that bubbled pleasantly, which small bird-shaped alebrijes might use as a bath.

Héctor took deep breaths to steady himself as he approached the front door, not out of any need for air but only old habit. If he let his hands shake, Miguel would notice, and the poor kid didn't need anything more to worry about. Standing on the mat, he took one last glance down at his grandson and winced; hair sticking out around the oversized hat, face smudged with grime from the back streets, covered in a tattered, filthy poncho, the boy looked like a complete ragamuffin.

_...whoops. Not gonna win me any points...but I'm already in the record-setting negatives anyway._

Héctor raised a fist and knocked timidly. He couldn't exactly hope that no one was at home, but maybe Imelda would be out and he could speak to someone else—

A roar resounded through the courtyard and sent Miguel crowding against his legs with a frightened squeak.

_Oh no._

Imelda's huge, terrifying alebrije rose from a sunny spot on the outbuilding roof across the courtyard, wings casting a deep shadow as the massive feline leaped effortlessly to the ground. The growl the creature emitted shook the courtyard floor as it advanced. Pepita knew Héctor on sight and, after this many years, knew that her mistress didn't want him around.

And yet, Miguel's fearful whimper seemed to drown out all of the oncoming alebrije's noise.

" _Hey!_ " Hyper-aware of the tiny hands clinging to his trouser leg, Héctor pointed a finger at the big cat's nose, marveling somewhere in the back of his mind that his hands still weren't shaking. "Back off! I'm here on business, and you're scaring the kid!"

Pepita snarled but stood still, as if momentarily baffled by his defiance. One swat from her paw could scatter him all over the courtyard like an upended bundle of sticks, and she'd never been shy about showing her displeasure. Before she could respond, however, a small brightly-colored bundle of excitement bounced up to her feet, yapping loudly and tail wagging in a blur. Apparently stymied by this enthusiasm, Pepita stared down at the Xolo-alebrije-pup that threw itself to the ground in front of her and wriggled endearingly as if ecstatic to see her.

With the fearsome alebrije thus distracted (perhaps she wasn't sure if she should eat it or play with it), Héctor kept Miguel close to him and edged away from the hazard. The only thing worse now would be—

Just behind him, the door swung open sharply. "—is going on, upsetting my alebrije and— _ **you**_."

Imelda's voice, quick to bare fangs of spite, bit into him with all the pain and force he remembered from the last time he'd darkened her doorstep—and the time before that, and the time before that...

_Dios, dame fuerza._

Héctor closed his eyes, gave himself one moment to gather all his strength, and turned to her with the most neutral, earnest expression he could manage. Now was not the time for smarmy grins, romantic flourishes, or exaggerated pleas. "Imelda, buenos días. I—"

"Get out! Pendejo músico!" she snarled, her face twisting with rage. "If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, never come back here!"

"I'll go, just give me a moment to—!"

"I gave you my heart! I gave you years of my life!" She had her boot in her hand in the blink of an eye, advancing on him as threateningly as her alebrije had. "You spat on it all and threw it away! I will give you _nothing more!_ "

Already he was backing away from her wrath, ducking her swing. "Imelda, _listen_ —!"

"Cállate! I told you to get out! _Out!_ Never show your face here again!"

When he dodged back again, his leg bumped against solid warmth. Miguel was still there, cowering from the huge angry alebrije and the shouting adults with a child's innocent confusion, and Héctor was his only shelter from all that was frightening and unfamiliar.

Imelda had a right to her anger, but this was a separate issue.

_Enough. **Enough**. This is not helping Miguel!_

If he stepped back even once more, they'd be fighting on top of their great-great-grandson (a young child should never be subjected to their parents' conflicts). Héctor straightened his spine as Imelda swung again. Instead of giving ground, he raised his right arm to block the blow.

Her boot slammed into his radius, snapping the brittle bone with a crack that seemed like a gunshot in the closed courtyard, thudding into his ulna with bruising force. He grit his teeth against the lightning agony that rocketed up his arm, the pain turning his voice sharp.

"Will you _stop shouting_ and _listen to me_ for _one God-blessed minute?_ "

For a moment Imelda stood blinking at him, startled as much by the fact she'd actually connected as with his tone.

"This is important." He lowered his arm, pushing her shoe away; urgency made him force the pain to the background, though he didn't dare try to move any of the fingers of his right hand. "Miguel is _here_."

" _What?_ " Her jaw went slack. "You mean— _my_ Miguelito? But...I-I should've been notified—!"

"He's not dead," Héctor reassured her quickly, reaching back with his good arm to nudge the child forward. He reclaimed his fraying hat, removing the haphazard disguise on the boy. "He didn't come in through Arrivals."

Stunned, Imelda stared down at the _living child_ on her doorstep. Wary of her, Miguel kept a grip on Héctor's trouser leg as if expecting him to disappear.

"He showed up last night near—near my place," Héctor went on, "and...I thought it best if I brought him to you."

"Last night?" Imelda snapped, her ire quickly returning. "He's been here since _last night_ and you didn't—?"

"He didn't recognize me." Héctor tried not to _bite_ out the words, tried not to sound the slightest bit accusing, the pain in his arm already sharpening his tone. "And I didn't know who he was at first. And he was soaking wet—I wasn't going to run him across town like that in the middle of the night!"

Imelda's scowl deepened along with her glare. "Explain. _Now_."

"He came from the Waters." Héctor kept his good hand on Miguel's hair, trying to reassure the boy as he spoke quickly. "Something about a ghost trying to grab him—maybe La Llorona?—and this alebrije puppy rescued him from it, but somehow he got from the river in Santa Cecilia to...here."

Imelda spared a quick glance at Dante, where the pup was bouncing happily around Pepita's paws as if trying to reach the big cat's face to lick it.

"Alebrije can't carry anything across the Veil," she stated skeptically. "If they could, people would have been sending letters and packages back and forth every day instead of only on Día de Muertos."

"I don't know _how_." Héctor shrugged, and immediately regretted it when the movement jostled his fractured arm. Wincing, he hissed through his teeth and pressed on. "I found my _living grandson_ washed up from the Waters with this alebrije that used to be his pet, and _he_ doesn't understand what happened either, only that he heard a scary sound, fell in the river, and saw something that looked like a ghost before his dog pulled him under and he woke up _here!_ And now he's got to get back to the land of the living, he's hungry, and I don't have any way to help him!"

"Another inconvenience you're so eager to leave behind," Imelda sniffed, folding her arms.

Struck, Héctor found himself glaring back at her for several beats, wondering if she'd actually heard any of the words he'd said. He had to tighten his jaw to keep from retorting something about how she'd wanted him to bring the boy _sooner_. His worry over Miguel had apparently short-circuited his usual guilt and passivity in her presence, but if he fought with her they'd get nowhere; Imelda never backed down from a fight, and the quickest way to defuse her was to avoid locking horns.

"I have _nothing_ ," he said, as flatly as he could manage. "I have no food for him, and my house is not fit for children. _You_ can provide for him better than I can. _You_ can make sure the Department does everything possible to return him to the living world. This isn't about me—this isn't even about _us_. Miguel takes priority, and _I can't help him_."

She studied him for long moments before finally rolling her eyes and looking away. "Fine. You've done your good deed. Of course I'll take care of him. Now get out."

"Gracias, Imelda." With only one arm, Héctor tried to push the boy toward her, but Miguel wouldn't let go of him. "Miguel...mijo, you're gonna stay with Imelda now, alright? She'll get you some breakfast."

"No...Papá Héctor, I wanna go with you!" Miguel resisted the soft pressure, balking more when Imelda reached for him. "I don't want to stay here!"

"Easy now—I got it. Hey, hey, Miguel," Héctor said gently, kneeling to look the child in the eyes, "this is your Mamá Imelda. You know her, right?"

"She's on top of the ofrenda," the boy said after a moment, guarded. "Mamá Coco's mamá. She made shoes first."

"That's right." Héctor smiled encouragingly. "Mamá Imelda has room for you, and food too. That's why you need to stay here."

"But..." Miguel cast a wary, suspicious look up at the stern woman, keeping a tight hold on Héctor's left arm bones. " _She's_ the one who said no music. She'll hate me."

"No way! Mamá Imelda _loves_ you. She takes care of your family that lives here, just like your Abuelita takes care of your family where you live. You're _much_ more important than music, mijo. You need to stay where it's safer for you." Héctor didn't let his smile waver, cajoling and positive. "You'll feel better when you get some food, okay? Your family here will be so happy to see you! And then Mamá Imelda will help you go home to your mamá and papá. You'll be fine."

"Well...okay..." Very reluctantly, Miguel let go of Héctor's good arm. He didn't look pleased, but at least he wasn't digging in his heels.

"Come along, Miguel." Imelda held out her hand, her voice firm but not cold.

The boy glanced at her outstretched hand, then at Héctor. "When are you coming back?"

_I'm not. I'm sorry._

"Imelda's gonna take care of you now." The tears he held back burned as his good hand cupped his grandson's cheek, cherishing the warmth he would never touch again. Leaning close, he kissed the boy's forehead, lingering to murmur, "Be good, Miguel. I love you."

_Please don't forget how much I love you._

As Héctor rose and stepped back, holding himself rigid, Imelda caught Miguel's arm when the boy reached for him again. She still glared at him, but there was something off in her gaze that he couldn't process; all his strength was taken by staying upright and polite. There wasn't time or space for one more hug, one more goodbye, one more _anything_ —he would always want one more, and another, and another...

_One more chance. Please, just..._

If he started he'd never stop. He had to hold himself up in spite of his broken heart breaking all over again, in spite of the jagged pain in his cracked arm. As if it wasn't his family he was walking away from once more; as if it wasn't the only kin who'd shown him any affection in almost a century he was leaving behind, never to see again.

_I can't..._

_I **have** to._

He'd told her he would leave as soon as he'd explained. His face a mask, he cleared his throat and tipped his hat to the lady as if she was a stranger he'd bumped into in the marketplace. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Señora. Good day."

She started and looked as if she wanted to say something, but he turned away too quickly. He was already at the edge of his tolerances, and if he lingered now he'd collapse. He could only try to ignore the sounds behind him—the scuffling of little feet, the click and rattle of a door opening.

"Papá Héctor's gonna come back, right? M-Mamá Imelda? He's gonna come back? After breakfast?"

"Of course not." Imelda's voice, gentler with a child but still displeased. "That músico is not welcome here."

"B-but, he's—!"

" _Miguel_ , behave and come inside. We need to get you home."

"No...no, Papá Héctor, _please!_ "

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't help you._

Héctor kept walking, telling himself he couldn't hear anything behind him, not the upset little boy or the irritated woman or the confused whines of the alebrije-dog. Everyone here hated him, but Miguel didn't want him to leave, and that was almost enough to break him.

_My boy. I love you. Go home. **Live**._

Closing the courtyard gate behind him helped drown out some of the noise, but it didn't really stop until Imelda managed to get Miguel inside and shut the door. Then he was walking through the quiet of an ordinary neighborhood in the late morning, with no living child at his side (no small warm hand in his, no sweet musical giggles, no curious little voice asking so many questions) as if once more it had all been a dream, as if it had never happened at all.

Every step he took carried him further away from the last scrap of love in his existence. If by some astronomically slim chance he lasted long enough to see Miguel again, his grandson would be grown, old enough to understand the truth, and turned against him by the stories of their family. The little chamaco who looked at him with love and adoration would never do so again.

But Miguel would _live_. And that was all that mattered.

Héctor kept putting one limping foot in front of the other, his only company the broken-glass ache of his fractured arm. He didn't care where he was going, just _away_ , and his feet carried him along aimlessly until he found himself all the way back where he'd started, just outside of Shantytown. Old, old habit had led him back home.

Beyond the gate there was music and joking and raucous teasing shouts. Everyone within sounded far too happy in the afternoon lull. Like they hadn't had their fondest wishes offered to them on a silver platter and had to let the gift slip through their fingers.

It wasn't fair of him to be bitter. He should not begrudge his Shantytown Family any happiness they could find. _They_ hadn't had the privilege of a surprise living family visit, not even through an ofrenda. He'd had an opportunity few of them could even dream of, and he should be _grateful_ for the time he'd had.

It was his own fault. He'd known Miguel for less than a day, and sending his grandson away was almost like leaving Coco behind all over again. He got attached far too easily, even when he knew he shouldn't. He knew it only caused pain, missing what he couldn't have, and he already had enough to miss just trying to see his daughter again.

His heart disagreed with his head. His heart said that Miguel was his grandson and he had every right to miss him, even if he'd only known him for a few hours. His heart wanted to rush back to his family's home and beg for one more chance, even if pleading had never worked before. His heart knew that he loved that beautiful little boy helplessly, instantly, eternally, just like he loved his wife, his daughter, and all of his faceless grandchildren no matter how far apart they were.

Héctor couldn't stand the thought of returning to his cold, empty hut without the music of Miguel's voice to fill it. He had no strength left to don his careless grin for the sake of his fellow Nearly-Forgotten. He turned away from the merry voices of his Shantytown Family (their laughter he couldn't join and their questions he didn't want to answer) and his feet took him onward to the shadowed place at the edge of the misty Waters where he'd first found Miguel.

There he slumped like a forgotten marionette, with his broken arm and his broken heart, silent tears rolling down his cheekbones. In over a hundred years of existence, he'd never learned to stop longing for things he couldn't have, and all he could think about was the precious boy just beyond his grasp and the beloved daughter whose whole life he'd missed.

He didn't move from that spot until Chicharrón found him, hours or days or eternities later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _How can I not love you?_   
>  _What do I tell my heart?_   
>  _When do I not want you_   
>  _Here in my arms?_   
>  _How does one waltz away_   
>  _From all of the memories?_   
>  _How do I not miss you_   
>  _When you are gone?_
> 
> _How can I not love you_  
>  _When you are gone?_
> 
> — Joy Enriquez, “How Can I Not Love You” ( _Anna and the King_ )
> 
> I know it’s a romantic song, but it has the right sentiment.
> 
>  
> 
> Partial inspiration for the bone break comes from [im_fairly_whitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_fairly_witty) and [This Post](https://im-fairly-whitty.tumblr.com/post/170524417804/heeey-want-a-sad-theory-the-break-on-hectors-arm) .
> 
> Imelda didn’t give Miguel the best of first impressions in the film canon, either. (He tried to escape her then, too.)
> 
> This chapter was just plain hard to write.


	8. (Interlude) Lost Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware of extra long exposition chapter where a lot of nothing happens. There are no hugs. This is a travesty.
> 
> Seriously. Boring stuff.

Imelda was _exhausted_.

Technically, it shouldn't be possible for a Well-Remembered skeleton in the Land of the Dead to be _tired_. She had her entire living family proudly Remembering her all year long, she had no need for food or sleep or even air, she had no real joints to ache or muscles to strain; indeed, under most circumstances she could power on for days at a time, keeping watch over her family as she always had.

She'd started the week thinking that everything was going to be ordinary, as it had been for decades. And then that pendejo músico who had been her husband showed up out of the blue (she'd been enjoying years of peace in his absence, without him constantly popping in to pester her with his simpering and whining and caterwauling) and dropped an absolute perfect storm of a nightmare in her lap.

She wasn't really angry with her little Miguelito. If anything, the child was the most innocent person involved in this entire debacle, despite their difficulties. She wasn't entirely sure who or what was to blame for this, other than the dubious ghost that may have been in the Santa Cecilia river, but she suspected that part of it was because of that ridiculous, obnoxious alebrije which refused to be parted from her great-great-grandson (though she knew better than to try to separate them; Pepita would tear down walls if she thought her chosen soul was being taken from her, and Imelda didn't want to find out what mess a stupid dog might make of her house by attempting to climb in the windows or dig under the door).

She was also fairly certain that _something_ about Miguel's presence in the Land of the Dead was Héctor's fault. She just wasn't sure _how_.

It had been simple enough to take in her grandson and get him some food; they still had a few things left over from last year's Día de Muertos, since everyone tried to make it last until the next, and her brothers _always_ kept a stash of cookies in reserve. And of course, everyone was delighted to have Miguel in their home, to be able to talk to him and embrace him after years of merely watching him grow through annual visits. Rosita was practically beside herself to have a child in the house to dote on again.

Despite the quiet, wary boy, breakfast had gone smoothly. So had getting Miguel cleaned up from the filth Héctor had brought him in with, though the child refused to let her throw away the tattered rag of a poncho he'd worn (and Rosita had coddled him by promising to wash it). They'd also managed to get some questions answered and made some more introductions, though Miguel remained sullen most of the time.

The real nightmare began after all that, when she and Julio (Miguel's closest deceased relative) had marched the boy down to the Department of Family Reunions to find out just how to send a living child back where he belonged. After that, she no longer had time to dwell on her irritation with Héctor.

The Department had no record of his entry into the Land of the Dead, therefore it was certain that Miguelito was not in any way deceased ( _gracias a Dios_ ). They also had no idea how a living person could have arrived in the Land of the Dead without dying, _or_ without crossing over the Marigold Bridges during Día de Muertos due to some supernatural influence (something which hadn't happened in a couple of centuries, by the Department's best reckoning). The awe-inspiring cempasúchil spans used to pass into the living world on the Day of the Dead did not even _exist_ outside of that hallowed eve, rising mysteriously from the fog and wind near the Veil at sunset and vanishing into golden dust on the breeze the moment the sun rose the following morning, closing the gates between realms for another year.

The only creatures capable of passing through the Veil year-round were alebrijes, and they could take nothing with them from either world when passing from spirit to mortal form and back again. The clerks and researchers in the Department were doing a great deal of head-scratching about how Miguel had ended up on this side at all, much less how to send him _back_ . Living souls fell naturally into the afterlife when their bodies stopped functioning; _leaving_ it took a great deal of magic.

They'd spent the remainder of the day at the Santa Cecilia Department office, with personnel running to and fro carrying books, folders, and clipboards, searching through archives and looking for records of any Remembered soul old enough to recall the ancient days when the worlds of the living and the dead brushed shoulders more often. They'd had both Imelda and Julio attempt various curse-breaking rituals for hours, from the modern to the arcane, including everything from precious family objects to dried and fresh marigold petals, just to see if there was any way to send their grandson home, but in the end they had to admit defeat; Miguel was not cursed and there was no spell to break.

All the while, that stupid alebrije-puppy sat at Miguel's side, panting and grinning a doggy grin as if nothing was wrong at all.

When it grew terribly late Imelda called a halt to the frantic testing (Miguel was already sullen and upset and wanted to go home to his parents, and with the constant poking and long hours of waiting he was rapidly moving toward _cranky_ ) and took her grandson home to rest. The child was tired and hungry and Imelda was _done_ with ineffective bureaucracy fluttering around like pigeons.

Then, when they fed Miguel dinner, Imelda had a terrible realization: Their boy would need to eat a sufficient amount of food two or three times a day for as long as it took to find him a way home, and two meager (and rather unhealthy) meals of cookies and sweetbread had already half decimated the Riveras' modest stores of snacks.

She wasn't going to have enough food for her grandson to last a few _days_ , much less a week.

It was a chilling, hollow awareness that brought to mind the time before she'd started making shoes, when she wasn't sure she'd be able to put food on the table for Coco from one day to the next, waiting for another envelope containing meager pesos to arrive. Only this time it wasn't a matter of money, it was a matter of wondering if sufficient food even _existed_ in the Land of the Dead.

Imelda asked her granddaughter, who knew what seemed like almost everything, how much time they might have, and Victoria gave her the Survival Rule of Threes: Miguelito might live three minutes without air, three days without water, and three weeks without food.

And three weeks was the outermost limit before he went into a coma and died; infirmity and severe illness would set in long before that.

By the next day, the twins and Rosita were canvassing their neighbors for donations of food and supplies for their lostling living child. Imelda and Julio took Miguel back to the Department office to harry them for answers again, or at least some solutions to their problems. And suddenly there were a _lot_ of problems.

They'd all long forgotten how much _work_ it was to stay alive and healthy, when in the Land of the Dead they needed so little. Miguel had to eat sufficient food and use the bathroom regularly (one of the archivists had found an old chamber pot in the basement like Imelda hadn't seen used since her girlhood, and placed it in an empty office) and would need to bathe and brush his teeth. Obviously skeletons didn't need to eat, and especially didn't need to eliminate after they did; bathing was something done rather rarely and only when there was need (there was no skin to sweat with, no oils or odors to worry about).

Imelda had been horrified to learn that the water piped into their houses for washing _wasn't clean_ (why would the dead need it to be more than barely filtered?) and this was what she had been giving her grandson to drink. The Department heads immediately began to fall over themselves to work out water sanitation (they had the tools and materials but no one had ever bothered). There _probably_ weren't any bacteria in the Land of the Dead, as there was no way in and nothing really for them to live on, but Miguel was a source of them himself and if he was weakened by dirty water or rancid food he might still take ill.

They would need changes of clothes and bedding for him, and ways to wash those things. He would need combs, toothbrushes, toilet paper and towels. He would need a near constant supply of _clean_ water, sufficient calories and nutrients each day, a place to eliminate waste and keep it sanitary, at least eight hours of sleep per night, and ways to keep his mind busy. The frantic air in the Department of Family Reunions gradually shifted from " _How can we send the child home?_ " to " _How do we keep the child alive and healthy until we can figure it out?_ "

Some members of the Department, faced with seemingly insurmountable troubles for just one kid, wanted to give up; by their logic, it wasn't the end of the world if one child among millions died and he'd be much easier to care for then. Imelda wouldn't hear of it (chasing one vocal individual out of the room with her boot), and took her sniffling grandson home again, leaving the clerks and workers with a stern admonition to keep trying.

At least her fierce defense of the boy's right to continue living seemed to make him glower at her a little less.

By the day after that, the entire neighborhood around the Rivera home was in a quiet uproar, having heard the news of the living boy and responded with disbelief, amazement, and concern. People were dropping in at all hours of the day to bring food, spare clothes, extra toiletries, anything they had. They gave freely, asking after Miguel and expressing their hopes for his safe, swift return home. Imelda had never felt prouder of her community, nor more grateful for the good friends her family had made in the years here.

The Department pulled itself together as well, not entirely due to Imelda's shoe threats; there were decent folk there as well. Technicians arrived to set up a filtration system under the Rivera house so that Miguel would have assuredly clean water to drink and bathe in. There were a great many things that skeletons didn't use which were thrown into piles at the bottom of the towers of the Land of the Dead, and some enterprising interns had found and cleaned up an abandoned set of those portable plastic outhouses (suddenly these were much less silly and disgusting things when they were so desperately needed). One was placed in a corner of the Rivera courtyard near the gate (Rosita immediately set about putting up colorful curtains and screens to make that corner more pleasant and private for their boy), and the Department promised trucks would come by regularly to switch it out for a fresh one.

They had water aplenty, and sundry supplies in forgotten dumps, warehouses, and basements from decades of not being needed by the dead, but they were desperately short on _food_ —the rarest, most vanishing resource. And Miguel could not live on conchas and chocolate alone.

To Imelda's surprise, however, more than just her family, friends, and neighbors wanted to share what they had with the mysterious living child. As the rumors spread day by day, more and more skeletons showed up on the Riveras' doorstep with bags, boxes, baskets, and armloads of everything they had left over from the last Día de Muertos. Some had to see Miguel for themselves before they were entirely willing to part with their gifts, but all of them brought _something_ edible. Most of it was baked goods and sweets that could keep long-term (Imelda and Victoria despaired of turning the poor boy diabetic before they managed to get him home), but sometimes there was hard cheese or jerky—precious protein.

Seeing how willing even perfect strangers were, the Department clerks finally got the idea through their collective idiocy to put out an official announcement about the living boy in their midst and his desperate need for nourishment until he could be returned to his home. In the time that followed this broadcast through television, radio, and newspapers (complete with a picture of Miguel looking suitably sad and frightened), the entire Land of the Dead pulled together in a stunning display of both shock and care. There were _millions_ dwelling in the afterlife and most of them had access to one ofrenda or more; everyone was dropping extra food off at Department offices, community centers and churches. Celebrities made great shows of bringing large loads of gifts. Even deceased youngsters started taking up food drives in their neighborhoods with little wagons and baskets.

In a matter of days Miguel Rivera was the talk of the afterlife, like a news story about a baby in a well or whales trapped in the Arctic. _Everyone_ had heard about him and wanted to help.

Enough food arrived that Imelda felt somewhat better about Miguel's chances, even if it opened up an entirely new can of logistical difficulties. It was impossible for food to actually _mold_ in the Land of the Dead (mold spores, it seemed, didn't grow there any more than anything else did), but it could very well go stale or rancid if left out too long. The Department helped her family set up as many refrigerators and freezers as could fit in the pantry, to hold as much of the offerings as they could for Miguel's daily use; the rest was kept in the care of the Santa Cecilia Department office. The family's kitchen was also provided with a larger stove, a toaster oven, and even one of those noisy, new-fangled microwave things (and a stern warning never to put anything metal inside it).

Oscar and Felipe were already tinkering with things to help with food storage and making toys for Miguel. Rosita was thrilled with cooking for real on a regular basis, even as limited as their menu was, and took up overseeing baths and bedtimes since Miguel didn't trust Imelda. Julio worked twice as hard, keeping his duties in the shoe shop and looking after setting up Miguel's living quarters and sorting out his clothing. Victoria read up on child care, nutrition, and first aid, eager to help in her own quiet way. Imelda shook her fist and her shoe at the Department of Family Reunions and demanded day after day that they find a way to send her grandson home.

After long, tiring days of trying and _trying_ every little thing that anyone could find or even think up, from ancient dances to a memorably chilly boat ride, one by one the heads of the Department began to give up. There was no spell or curse or astral projection; Miguel was physically present in the Land of the Dead and they could find no way to send him back. In the end, they were sure of only one path back to Santa Cecilia: Día de Muertos. When the Bridges returned and the gates to the Land of the Dead opened, they would have at least _one_ sure way to take Miguel back to the living world.

The problem was that the Day of the Dead was over two months away.

Imelda wasn't happy with how long that would take. Her grandson would have to survive with their makeshift preparations and inadequate food supply for better than nine weeks, and on the other side his living family had to be worried positively sick for him. She knew how distraught her daughter would be with their precious littlest grandson missing, and in such tragic circumstances; it knotted her nonexistent stomach to picture Coco weeping for the lost child, thinking him dead in the river.

But Imelda _would_ get Miguelito home to Coco, she swore it on her family's love and honor. All they needed was to hold on until Día de Muertos. Just that long, and then they could walk Miguel across the Bridge to Santa Cecilia and take him home. Oh, what a joy and relief that would be at last!

Miguel himself was...a challenge, to say the least. He was already upset in general over Héctor leaving him with his family (really, the boy shouldn't have been surprised; leaving was what her husband _did_ ), people he only knew from pictures and stories. He was sullen when Imelda was in the room and shy with most of the others, and had a decidedly irritating habit of asking when he could see Héctor again. The others would uncomfortably deflect the question when it came up, but Imelda would tell him the truth, and that only seemed to make the child more and more mulish every time.

Imelda had to admit that she didn't know her great-great-grandson as well as she thought she did. She remembered a sweet but bored child during the quiet Día de Muertos feasts at the living Rivera home, Elena feeding him and shushing him, and his young mother keeping him in arms to prevent him running about the cemetery during candlelight visits. _Nothing_ in those encounters had done anything to prepare Imelda for the energetic, messy, loud little boy who could go from sunny grins to surly scowls in a heartbeat and tended to leave a trail of dust, clutter, and sheer _noise_ wherever he went.

If there was a mess, the boy was sure to be right in the middle of it. If there was something that could be knocked over, Miguel would discover a way to bump it. If there was any object that could make sound, the child would rap, puff, strum, or tap almost without thinking. With his silly alebrije at his heels, he could do all of this nonstop, from the moment he woke until the moment he collapsed into bed. Poor Julio couldn't keep up with him in the least, and they could hardly go an hour without Rosita's high pitched shrieks and squawks as yet another thing went awry or another mess was found. Imelda's brothers were entirely too distractable to be good babysitters, but they were the only ones who could match Miguel's pace when Imelda was busy.

And Miguel could be as moody and stubborn as he was kind and shyly cheerful. He tended to be quiet around Imelda herself, frowning and only grudgingly responding to her, but he was obedient, even agreeable to the others. He knew the routine of a shoe shop, and he _tried_ to do what his Papá Julio asked him to when he helped, even if the results were clumsy. He even tentatively tried to assist Rosita in the kitchen, though that often just made the messes worse. He missed his living family terribly, and he wouldn't accept Imelda's comfort; she would often find him later, curled up next to wherever Victoria was reading a book, sniffling quietly while his great-aunt absently petted his hair.

However, there were a few points the sweet, likable child would set his feet and refuse to budge on, becoming a surly little stone wall, and one of those issues was Héctor, something that never failed to make Imelda lose her patience. Every negative response from her just seemed to make Miguel scowl more, even if he didn't directly challenge her. He clung to the tattered (but clean) wool poncho he'd arrived in like a security blanket and stayed as far from Imelda as he could get.

Coco had been a stubborn girl in her own quiet, sweet way, but she had been far more cooperative and respectful than Miguel. Imelda's granddaughters had also been much more agreeable children; Victoria had plenty of her own ideas, but she was obedient and thoughtful. Elena had of course been quite loud and willful, but in the end she seldom actually disagreed with her family and always did as her mother and grandmother bid her. Even Elena's oldest boy, Berto, had been a cranky but compliant baby when Imelda had known him briefly in life.

Miguel was in a class by himself, and half the time Imelda was at her wits' end. Equal parts precious and infuriating, the little boy had her by turns melting and tearing her hair out multiple times a day, and the shoe shop soldiered on under Julio while she ran after the child. Miguel did not seem to like his great-great-grandmother at all, which didn't help matters when she had to scold him for one thing or another (depressingly frequent). She'd never had to bark "No music!" to anyone in the family so often as this child, but on the other hand she'd quickly learned that when he got _quiet_ there was usually a disaster waiting to happen. He knew how to use puppy-dog eyes to great advantage (Rosita had no resistance whatsoever) and would often go right ahead doing something he was told not to do as long as he thought no one was looking; "No" didn't mean "No" to him, it meant "Go around." He was kind-hearted and well-meaning but obstinate and artful and terribly clever for his age.

It was all so wrenchingly familiar. There were moments Miguel was so much like Héctor had been in their youth that it made Imelda want to scream in fury or just sit down and sob. Victoria would say something sternly to the boy and Miguel would grin apologetically and clutch at one arm and his entire posture would make Imelda's ethereal gut clench. Rosita would call him to the kitchen for a meal and Miguel would dance and skip along to a rhythm only he could hear and Imelda's hands would ball into fists at the phantom sound of her husband's whistling. Julio would ask Miguel to help clean up in the shop and the little boy's thin limbs would flail as he tried to catch something he dropped, and Imelda had to grit her teeth against the memory of Héctor's well-intentioned clumsiness.

With plenty of his very own looks and personality, Miguel wasn't a tiny Héctor (thank all that was holy), but that just made the myriad parts of him that _were_ all Héctor leap out at her like a jaguar pouncing from a tree—unexpected, all-consuming, and painful. It shouldn't have been _possible_ , this many generations away, for any of her great-great-grandchildren to take after that pendejo músico so clearly (they all had their little traces, but Imelda could ignore sporadic flickers like so many short-lived fireflies). It wasn't Miguel's _fault_ , blood was blood and no one could change that, but it was so strong in him that there were overwrought moments when it was all she could do not to _snarl_ at the innocent child as she would have her accursed husband.

As it was, she could snap at him sharply enough to send him running angrily to hide in his room under that dratted poncho, the damned alebrije-dog giving her reproachful looks as it slunk after him. She always regretted her tone when she'd calmed down, but Miguel's sullen defiance made apologies impossible. Very _un_ like Héctor, her grandson didn't abandon his disobedience when she reprimanded him; he only retreated to nurse his childish grudges in private, regardless of her authority or the logic of her arguments.

To add insult to injury, he continued to ask about Héctor—when he would see him again, when Papá Héctor would come back. It only made Imelda more furious with her walkaway husband; that man had always possessed an uncanny talent in utterly charming young children, like a guitar-strumming pied piper. Of _course_ he would find it far too easy to lure in a small boy who was so like him, capturing a trusting little heart like a dove in a net. Miguel was stubborn enough to hold on to that faithless man, just like Coco had been as a girl, and it left Imelda's chest aching. Despite the decades she'd spent trying to keep him away in life and in death, Héctor had selfishly caused yet another of her family to fall in love with him and then left her to pick up the pieces.

She wasn't truly angry with her Miguelito, despite how infuriating the boy could be. It was Héctor's fault, inspiring both Miguel's stubborn faith in him, and the inevitable crash and burn that would come when their grandson finally realized that man was never coming back for him. It would hurt him, just like it had hurt Coco, and it was one more log on the fire of Imelda's anger on top of all the rest of the stress.

Ten days after Miguel arrived on her doorstep (and they still had two months to go, _por Dios_ ), Imelda was exhausted, emotionally drained, and ready to wring Héctor's neck with a fury she hadn't experienced since the first year after he'd left home. Back when she'd had little money from week to week, fingers worked to the bone on leather and stitching, and only cruel answers for her daughter's tearful demands to know when Papá was coming home.

She had only cruel answers for Miguel, too. Héctor wasn't coming back because leaving was what he did. Héctor wasn't coming back because Imelda would not allow him to return only to break their family again.

She was not prepared to acknowledge the care she had seen Héctor take with the boy in her courtyard, the gentleness she knew all too well from his time with their daughter. Anyone could be kind to children, and he just happened to be especially good at it.

She was not prepared to contemplate the rare courage he'd shown, standing firm in the face of an alebrije he'd always seemed terrified of, or the way he'd pushed back for the first time when she swung her boot at him. She could count on one hand the number of times he'd _ever_ raised his voice to her, and the memory of the bite in his tone that day still gave her an uncomfortable pinch in her chest.

She was not prepared to think about the way he'd turned his back on her, the wooden expression on his face, the way he'd spoken as if they were strangers. She should have been happy it seemed like he'd at last given up. She wasn't prepared to think about it, but no matter how she tried she _could not_ forget the shattered look in his eyes.

Even walking away from her and Coco had not left him looking that broken. She couldn't understand it. At this point, she hadn't the energy to try to understand it.

Ten days in. Two months to go. And she'd just come from yet another unpleasant altercation with her grandson, once again over the music the child couldn't seem to stop producing. She'd scolded, he'd scowled, and the very next thing she knew she was snapping at him and he was accusing her of making Papá Héctor go away because she hated music.

No one had ever called her _mean_. Not her family. Not to her face.

Miguel had fled from her and was hiding in his room with that damnable poncho again, possibly under the bed this time. Imelda was sitting in the sala with a cool damp cloth on her forehead, ignoring the passing of time, wondering where all her child-rearing skills had gone and how she was going to survive eight more weeks of this stubborn, surly, uncooperative little boy she loved so much—

"Oye! Imelda!"

That was Oscar or Felipe. It didn't matter which had yelled; where one went, the other was right behind him. Imelda plucked the cloth from her head and sat up to glare at her brothers as they tumbled into the room.

Felipe waved his arms frantically. "Miguel's gone!"

" _What?_ " she snapped.

"Rosita went in to check on him after a while—"

Oscar took up the explanation. "—because a treat can sweeten him up a little—"

"—you know like she always does? And—"

"—the bed's empty, that raggedy security blanket is gone—"

"—and the crazy dog is gone too, and Dante—"

"—never goes anywhere without Miguel...!"

Instead of leaping into action, Imelda paused a moment to lean back, drop the damp cloth over her face, and resist the urge to let out a string of dire, blue-air curses that would have shocked even her brothers who knew her younger days well.

" _Ave María Purísima_...does it never end?" she muttered instead.

 _Then_ she stood up, faced her brothers, and took charge once again. "Close the shop. Gather everyone and get ready to search. Send Julio to the Department office to notify the authorities of a missing child. I will get Pepita. Vámonos!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still really don’t like this whole part, but at this point I have to throw up my hands and post it or it just won’t happen. Can’t seem to tweak it any better.
> 
> I had to cram a lot of information (10 days’ worth) into it that would have been much too dry for non-interlude chapters and wrong from any other POV than Imelda’s. She’s in charge of the family after all, and she’s appointed herself head of the shoe business, as well as head of Getting Miguel Home Safely and head of Looking After The Living Child Day To Day.
> 
> Think she’s bitten off more than she can chew this time?
> 
> I do think she tries to do too much, and doesn’t stop to think about the consequences other than the practical, determined to protect her family for their own good. (Imperfect narrator.)
> 
> Miguel’s bad first impression of her is not making anything easy. He misses his parents a lot and he’s an angry, scared little boy who has a very hard time trusting his primary caregiver who in his mind is hostile to music and hates/drove off the best friend he’s made here.
> 
> Still, I’m sorry for the state of this chapter.


End file.
